by Amy Alward
I’m loaded up onto the back of a wagon, where I sit down on a hay bale. Ivan chains me to the wagon – as if I’m going to do a runner into the woods.
Emilia goes ahead of us, in a black carriage, pulled by a pair of black horses.
The horses that are pulling our wagon are less elegant – more like farm horses drafted in for the role. I prefer them. They don’t look like they’re going to gallop while I’m chained in the back.
Ivan lumbers up into the front and grabs the reins of the horses. He looks back at the truck, a wistful look on his face. It’s interesting to note that not everyone in Gergon is happy about the lack of motorised vehicles.
My chains give me enough slack to lie back on the hay bales, and my eyes threaten to drift closed again. I pinch myself to stay awake. Pretending it’s all a dream is not going to help me.
I stare out into the maze of trees. There’s something weird about them, and it takes a few moments of looking before I realise what’s bothering me. An area of trees this big feels like it should be Wild land – a haven for magical creatures. If I came across this wood in any other place, I would fear dire-wolves stalking me between the trunks, or fierce brown bears in the clearings. But instead, there is something a bit too manicured about the area. The trees are planted in neat rows, paths carved through the forest in a way that shouts human interference. No, not human interference. Talented. This is not so much a forest as it is a garden, like the one at the Palace in Laville. It’s just that some parts of Gergon tastes run towards the sinister and dark, rather than the neat and pristine. So they’ve created a terrifyingly perfect dark wood.
I lose track of time, listening to the bumpy, monotonous rhythm of the cart, and the steady clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the stony ground. Despite the darkness of the forest, the sky overhead is perfectly blue – and totally not in keeping with the way I’m feeling at the moment. Storm clouds, flashes of lightning and pounding rain would be a better match. At least the rain might soothe my aching wrists. They’re still burning like hell.
I need a salve to heal them – something for severe rope burn.
Juice from a prickly pear cactus, crushed and mixed with mermaid tears – perfect for curing burns.
Staring up at the sky reminds me of Anita. She and I used to waste away hours lying on the grass in High Park, trying to decide the perfect name for the colour of the sky above us. Blue just didn’t seem enough. Each season it seemed to change – from the pale, powdery blue of winter, to the murky and cloud-filled azure of spring to the piercingly bright lapis of summer and the rich, smoky cerulean of autumn. Anita always preferred the brightest blues, and for her sixteenth birthday I spent all winter in the lab trying to perfect a mix that would shine just as powerfully as the sky on a hot summer’s day. It was worth it for the look of delight on her face when she saw the tiny vial of blue, which I had fixed to a gold necklace. Then, even on the greyest day, she had something to make her smile.
I sit up as soon as the tops of the trees disappear from view. The woods clear, and across the countryside I get my very first glimpse of where we’re headed.
It takes my breath away.
It’s a castle built into a vertical cliff face of a huge mountain, clinging to its side like a barnacle on a ship. I count at least three round towers, with conical roofs which are a faded burnt orange – the only part of the castle that’s not made of pale white stone. It contrasts against the dirty grey of the mountain, a white stain on the cliff. It looks like a place a dragon would guard.
I’m not wrong about that last bit. As we pass beneath the gates that lead up towards the castle, I spot a half-broken insignia of a dragon wearing a crown. The symbol of the Gergon Royals.
I curl my legs up into my chest. Is this where Emilia has been hiding this entire time? Who is giving her access to a castle? I am a pawn. Well, perhaps more of a knight. That’s what Emilia said. If that’s the case, then are the King and Queen of Gergon behind this? I wish I’d paid more attention in my world history class – then maybe I’d know.
I don’t know the facts, but I do know some of the legends. There are many famous tales that have sprung from the darkest reaches of Gergon. Some of them are beautiful – tales of princesses living in elaborate castles, being rescued by handsome princes who slew dragons in their honour. As a child, my favourite Gergon tale had been of two children who were able to turn anything they touched into sugar. They lived in a house of candy and sweets.
I even had a picture book of the story at home, with the most amazing illustrations. The tale had another benefit too: it taught me to be nice, to play with others, to share – and not to eat too much candy.
Well, that version of the tale did anyway. In the public library near our house, I once found an old hardback collection of Gergon fairytales. It told the candy story as it had originally been written – in this version, the two siblings got greedy and started fighting each other. At the very end, the sister turned her brother into toffee and ate him. Nice.
The thought draws my eyes back up to the castle. I wonder whether a gruesome fate awaits me inside – whether I will become a character in one of those stories. The apprentice alchemist who became an ingredient in a new potion, maybe, my fingers and toes ground up in the name of mixing?
Goosebumps crawl up my arms, even though the air is warm. I’m really not helping myself.
I peer over the wooden slats that surround the cart. There’s a small village at the base of the castle, though I can’t see anyone about. It looks like one of those plastic villages I’ve seen in theme parks, depicting life as it might have been hundreds of years ago. I can see evidence of people – a small wheelbarrow full to the brim with apples, still rocking; the mewing of a cat outside a closed door, desperate to be let in; the twitch of a curtain. So there are people here.
I crane my neck to look inside the windows. It’s getting dark but there are no lights on – not even the flickering of a candle – and there’s no telltale flicker of a television in sight either. What do these people do for fun? I wonder.
There are no telephone wires, no landlines, no cell signal. Unless they’re sophisticated enough to have the technology running underground (which I strongly doubt), that means I have no way of getting a message out even if I do escape. How will I call for help? Messenger pigeon?!
I turn from the village to the castle itself, which looms ahead of us. It’s hard to see where the castle ends and the mountain begins, as if the mountain itself is spewing out towers and conical roofs and turrets. I wonder who built it – who had the audacity to try and carve a home out of a cliff.
A grim thought crosses my mind. Once I’m inside that place, it will be even harder to escape. I tug on my chains, pulling until my wrists and ankles are sore. But they don’t budge.
I fall back onto the hay. As we trundle through the main gate, I watch as its spikes pass above my head, and as the gate falls back down, missing the back of the cart by mere inches, my last hope falls with it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Samantha
‘COME ON NOW, QUIT DAWDLING.’
I could not hate Emilia any more right now. My legs are refusing to function properly, my left foot burning with pins and needles that flared up once the ankle chain was released. I hobble inside.
My first instinct is to look up. It might once have been an impressive entrance hall, but most of the decorations have been stripped from the walls – or maybe looted. High above me, I can see where a gold frame has been hacked off a painting, the dour face of an old man in a long cloak still visible on the canvas. He does not look happy about being vandalised. The only remaining sign of opulence in the entrance hall is a gold chandelier – too high up to be reached easily. Whoever used to live here must have had long poles to light it with. Curling up the chandelier’s chains to the ceiling are two golden snakes, their eyes bright red jewels.
I frown. The intertwining snakes are an old alchemical symbol, representing the oppo
sing forces alchemy attempts to balance: life and death, illness and health, ordinary and Talented. It also cautions us about the nature of our work – that the mixes we create can either help or harm.
This version of symbol gives me the creeps, the eyes glinting as we pass underneath. No wonder Emilia chose this place to settle. Its creepiness suits her right down to the ground.
‘Take her upstairs, Ivan. She can rest while I get things set up.’
‘I’m not going to give you ANYTHING!’ I try and shout the last word, but it just comes out like a rasp.
‘Oh, and get the girl some water. I need her to be able to talk.’
Ivan roughly shoves my shoulder until I reach a staircase. He thankfully leads me up not down. At least it means I’m not being thrown in a horrible dungeon.
We head up five flights of stairs, before he nudges me down a hallway with several closed doors. He opens the third door down, then gestures for me to go inside.
I obey, too tired to do anything else. There’s a sink in the corner, and he fills up a clay jug that’s beside it. He puts the jug in my hands and gestures for me to drink.
‘Don’t you ever say anything?’ I ask him.
He moves to force the water down my throat.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll drink it!’ It does feel good not to be parched. As soon as I’m done, he grabs the jug and takes it with him. Damn. There goes my plan to hit him over the head with it.
I hear the lock turn in the door. Now that I’m alone in my ‘new room’, I check around for any potential exit routes, weapons, ingredients, anything I can use to help me get out of here or communicate with the outside world. But out of my tiny window is a completely sheer drop to the ground below, past several spiky-looking rocky outcrops that would be pretty painful to fall on. Besides, the window is too small for me to fit through even if I managed to make some kind of rope. This is bad.
The room is small – if I stretch my arms out I can reach the sides – and there is only a small single bed and the sink. It reminds me of the pictures Arjun sent to Anita of his university dorm room. Maybe this castle was once a university of sorts. Or a monastery: it’s so bare.
There’s not a single plug socket in any of the walls – or anything to charge a device even if I had my phone on me. I know I shouldn’t be shocked – so far, I haven’t seen a trace of electricity – but each time I realise there’s not even the capability here, it scares me. I know it’s sad, but my phone is my life.
I count my blessings. At least I have a bed and sheets for comfort, a sink to wash in, water to drink – and hopefully, I pray, there’s a proper bathroom and I don’t have to use a bedpan. There’s a pair of plain cotton trousers and a t-shirt to change into on the bed, which is good because I’m still wearing my ball dress – not practical for any escaping I might need to do.
Once I’ve changed, I hug my bag like a lifeline. The bed creaks as I sit down on it, and dust rises, as if it hasn’t been used in years. I carefully place the bag down and remove its sole contents: my potion diary. I can’t really believe they let me keep it.
‘What would Kirsty do?’ I say out loud. I need to fill the silence.
She’d keep her eyes open at all times, I think. She’d remember everything, in case it became useful. I try to think back over my journey. There were piles of broken glass outside the castle walls, and a bonfire of rubble, still smouldering. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was doing some building work. Then there was the mysterious pair of snakes I saw on the way in. If I can figure out where I am, maybe I can get a clue as to how to get out of here. Or, if I have the chance to send a message, then someone will be able to find me.
Next, I examine my bag. Can I use the straps in some way? They’re not very long. Throw my diary at someone’s head? It’s quite heavy, but probably wouldn’t do any lasting damage – except to piss them off.
Maybe there’s a stray hairpin that I could use to pick a lock . . .
It’s more wishful thinking, but I rummage through the bag anyway. The front pocket turns up nothing but lint. The main section is empty too, apart from a small hole in the lining.
I have no idea what silk lining could be used for, but I bet Kirsty would have some ideas.
Then my fingers grasp something else. I think I’m imagining it at first, as it’s more of a jolt to my senses, like a static shock. But no, there is something between my fingertips. It feels like I’m holding a marble of air – firm but soft.
I remove the object from the bag, holding my breath. It glows in my palm, its brightness dazzling my eyes. It’s the light the fairybug gave to me – the perfect gift I had already forgotten. I finally have time to examine it a bit more closely. It’s a delicate light, about the size of a single crown, that glows gently in my palm. When I enclose my hands around it, it glows even brighter. When I take my hands away, it returns to a gentle shine.
This is the first glimmer of hope I’ve had since the party. I enclose the ball of light in my fist. It’s small enough that I can tie it around my neck with one of the long strands that dangled from my ball dress. Maybe they won’t notice if I tuck the light beneath my t-shirt.
Now that I’ve exhausted every escape option, I lay down on the bed, struggling to sleep. I have to admit: I’m pretty scared right now. My eyes feel like they’re being held up by tiny needles, and as much as I want to close them and fall into oblivion, I can’t.
This is nothing like the fear I felt during the Wilde Hunt. There’s no adrenaline rush – this is sadness that’s keeping me awake.
I know there’s probably a hunt out there for me now. My parents must be searching. What about Zain? Evelyn? Unless others were taken too, to a different place than me. But why? I’m the one Emilia wants. I wonder if Evelyn has some kind of super monitoring system where she can find me. What if they think I’m already dead? Did Grandad get his medicine, or have they been distracted by me?
My thoughts keep jumping from place to place. But before I can think any more, the door is thrown open.
‘Come with me,’ Ivan says, in rough Novaen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Samantha
I DON’T WANT TO FIND out what it is Emilia wants with me. But I’m never going to escape if I don’t get out of my tiny cell.
I follow Ivan out into the hallway, turning the opposite way to how we came up, and to my relief he doesn’t blindfold me. We walk past a large window and I look outside to take note of my bearings. We must be in one of the circular towers as the wall is curved. The vast forest we drove through spreads as far as the eye can see, broken here and there by small wisps of smoke that rise from hidden dwellings. Apart from the little village right at the base of the castle, there’s no other town or village in view.
Ivan gives me a grunt that means I’ve been lingering too long.
‘So, where are we going?’ I ask, not expecting a response but tired of listening to nothing at all – even my own voice is better than silence. ‘Who are you, anyway? Are you like Emilia’s lapdog or something?’
He grunts again and I sigh. He leads me down a narrow circular staircase that seems to spiral down for an age. Every time we cross a landing, I crane my neck around the corners to see as much of the castle as possible.
We creep past the fifth landing when I realise something is odd about the castle. I’ve been comparing it to the Palaces in Nova and in Laville when it strikes me – there are doors everywhere here. If this castle belonged to the Gergon Royal family, they wouldn’t need to have so many doors – I’ve seen Evelyn pass through walls with barely a blink. Even the less powerful nobility tried to replicate the fashion – hiding doors behind huge paintings or tapestries. Anything to give the appearance of extreme magical power. But here, there’s none of that pretending.
We finally exit the staircase two levels below ground.
My jaw drops. We’re no longer in a castle. We’re in a cave so big you could fit the rest of the castle inside it.
St
alactites drip from the ceiling, sharpened to a point so the cave looks like the inside of a monster’s mouth. I wrap my arms around my body, trying to ward away the shivers. My eyes dart around, my heart racing every time I think I see a menacing face in the dark recesses of the cave. It’s just your imagination, I say to myself, as I shy away from what looks like a giant bat hanging from the ceiling. Just a weirdly shaped stalactite.
Something that isn’t my imagination is the giant hole in the centre of the cave, leading down to a whirlpool of rushing water.
Ivan pulls my arm and I stumble forward. My legs don’t want to move – there’s nowhere to go except that steep drop into the water – and who knows what sharp rocks lurk underneath. Is this how I’m going to die?
My brain is so unhelpful.
As we get closer to the hole, I see there’s a narrow path running around the outside. I’m not going to die this time. As we edge our way along the path, I look down, into the abyss at my feet. My head spins with vertigo and I snap my eyes back to the path. I’m not normally afraid of heights but this drop freaks me out. Thank the dragons for my big feet – at least they keep me stable.
Fortunately, once we’re on the other side, the ground widens again. The cave splits into several smaller ‘rooms’ and the ceiling slopes down to normal height.
The man leads me into one of the rooms. I flinch as I see who is waiting for me. Emilia has her back to us. Even that radiates evil, her shoulder blades as sharp as scythes, visible through the thin material of her dress.
In front of her is a blackboard, and behind are rows of desks. A classroom in a cave? Things keep getting weirder and weirder.
Emilia stares at the board, hands on her hips. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was looking at a problem she didn’t know how to solve. But the blackboard is completely blank.
‘Sam, take a seat.’
She gestures to one of the desks. I don’t want to, but Ivan pushes me forward. Eventually I give in, curving my body around the protruding desk. He speaks a few words into the air, pointing his baton at me. Chains jump up around my wrists, confining me to the desk. I grimace.
